Lost and Found
by itsreykenobi
Summary: After the fall of SHIELD, Agent Clint Barton is nowhere to be found. Armed with a file and a few cryptic clues from Nick Fury, Natasha Romanoff goes in search of her lost partner, but with HYDRA agents appearing more and more, how can she be sure the Clint Barton she knows isn't just a lie? Clintasha / Post CA:TWS
1. Lost

_Hello! This was heavily inspired by the song _Maps (Maroon 5),_ because I just felt like it suited Clint and Nat after the events of _CA: The Winter Soldier_. Kind of a given, but obviously there are going to be major spoilers so if you haven't seen it for some reason then please don't read this. This chapter's a bit dull because it's just setting it up, but hopefully it will pick up a bit by ch 3 or 4. Reviews/Favourites/Follows are greatly appreciated, especially feedback about the characters because I'm trying really hard to write them believably and not too OC. Also any prompts of suggestions of where to go with this story are welcome xx_

X X X

_"Be careful Steve. You might not want to pull on that thread."_

Natasha eyed him meaningfully. Even though she knew that nothing would stop Steve from pursuing his former friend, it didn't feel right for her to leave without some form of warning. Brain washing was hard enough to undo without having to undergo it multiple times, she felt a wrench in her gut for the inevitable pain Steve would have to go through. With a final nod, she turned her back on him and strode across the graveyard back towards her "borrowed" car (technically it had belonged to SHIELD, but with the whole world focused on the three wrecked helicarriers she doubted anyone would notice or care).

She let out a deep, steady breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding. In the space of a few hours, all sense of control and meaning had vanished from her life. What was she even meant to do now? Freelance wasn't really her style, but at the same time she knew that giving up everything she had worked for – her skills, her training – and settling down wasn't an option. The Black Widow always had to be on her feet, moving, dancing, taunting. She had to be active.

"Agent Romanoff," said a voice to her left, interrupting her thoughts.

"Director Fury," replied Natasha coolly, turning to face him. The director was leaning against the tree she had just passed, a file in his outstretched hand.

"I thought you might be interested in Barton's whereabouts." He offered upon seeing Natasha's raised eyebrow. A pang of guilt stirred inside her, she'd barely had time to think about Clint. Not that she thought he couldn't handle himself – hell, it was far from that. When she'd been dumping all of SHIELDs intel onto the internet it didn't once cross her mind to think about how it would affect Clint. She didn't care about what the world thought of _her_, and she was confident enough in herself to know that she could tackle anyone who came at her. But Clint? She didn't want to world to know about him, about the shit he'd done before he'd been recruited. That was private, and Natasha didn't like not being the only one to know about it.

"I managed to contact him just after I discovered SHIELD had been compromised," continued the director, "It was too dangerous to pull him out and get him back to base, so instead I warned him to retreat to a safe house nearby if anything went sour. I wasn't able to inform him of the details, but three days later I received a message that you can find a transcript of in there," he finished, referring to the folder in Natasha's hands.

She nodded in understanding, flicking briefly through the file.

"Natasha," Fury said, his tone completely changed. She looked up, startled. It was laced with warning and a desperate need for her to understand. She'd seen the director angry, disappointed, she'd seen him shut down in front of her the way she did, but never this. "There were a lot of traitors within SHIELD, just keep that in mind."

Her brow furrowed in confusion, surely he wasn't suggesting –

"A lot of rats didn't go down with the ship," he said, repeating the words he'd spoken earlier to Sam and Steve, "don't expect that just because Pierce is gone everyone left is automatically the good guys." Without further elaboration he turned his back on her and stalked away, disappearing into the flurry of people crossing the road.

Natasha shook her head slightly to clear her thoughts, before shoving the file in her bag. She would read it later, but first she needed to get out of this graveyard; it was giving her the creeps. Slamming the door of her car, she slumped her head against the steering wheel. Clint couldn't be – that wasn't possible – he would never, _never_ work for HYDRA. Or would he? The thought made her sick in the stomach, never before had she doubted or suspected Clint of anything.

"Don't be stupid," she murmured to herself, "Clint will be fine. You'll find him and then this will all work out."

X X X

_MISSION XI7J538: CLASSIFIED_

Natasha stared at the neat print on the cover of the folder, and slowly opened it to reveal several photographs of an elderly man with a short white beard and glasses. The name "Arnold Zander" was printed neatly at the bottom of each one, along with a time and place. Before she could begin reading through the file however, a ding from the kitchen informed her that her dinner was ready. Setting the file down on her bed, she silently made her way out of the bedroom, her bare feet padding softly on the hard wooden floor. After leaving the graveyard, she'd driven out of New York to her old apartment in Manhattan. It wasn't much, a simple one bedroom with a conjoined kitchen/lounge room, but it was enough.

Collecting her ramen from the microwave, Natasha reached into a drawer for a fork. Amidst the shiny, polished silver ones her hand brushed against plastic. She curled her fingers around it and drew it out. The object in question was a tacky, bright purple spork intended for kids, with the word _Avengers _printed on the handle. A soft laugh escaped her lips as gazed at it. It had been about a month after the battle of New York, and while browsing through Target they'd come across a range of superhero merchandise.

_"Look, Nat! We're on a dinner set! I'm pretty sure this means we're proper superheroes now." _He'd said jokingly, laughing with delight. She clutched it tightly, right now anything that could be tied to Clint was good. Popping it into her ramen she made her way back to the bedroom. Positioning herself on the bed she returned her attention to the file that lay before her. It barely took her two read throughs before she had the mission memorised. It was incredibly basic in principle, only a surveillance job. He'd been situated in Berlin, Germany (wasn't that ironic, thought Natasha, given that the whole reason she was reading the file was because of a Nazi group) but after being contacted by Fury he had relocated to a safe house about 40 miles let out a breath she hadn't noticed she was holding. Ever since Fury had mentioned extracting Clint from the mission she'd had a nasty feeling in her gut. For Fury to do that he must have felt that Clint was in real danger, and that thought had been niggling away in her mind ever since. She was confused, and angry that Fury had left her with so little. Rationally she understood why, but with her head clouded with worry for Clint she was having a hard time listening to reason. For the first time in months, it really hit her how much she missed him.

She looked around the bedroom, losing her thoughts in nostalgia for the last time she was here. It was different now, though. This time there was no Clint to hold her and stroke her hair, to whisper to her that it was okay. There was no one to gently coax her from her nightmares, there was no steady breathing to remind her she wasn't alone.

Feeling abandoned and vulnerable (something she hated with a passion), Natasha bundled up the file and tucked it safely away in her bag. As she finally slipped into bed, her hand curling around the pistol hidden beneath her pillow, there was one thought playing over and over in her mind.

What if she was too late?


	2. Not-So-Safe House

_Hello again! Sorry for the long wait for this chapter, been dealing with a bit of writers block and heaps of homework. The first part of this chapter is a bit of a filler but I think it picks up a bit towards the end so I hope you enjoy it! Thank you so much for all the lovely reviews, they honestly make my day, so keep 'em coming! Also let me know if there's anything you would like to see in the next few chapters (I'm guessing this will be about a 6 chapter fic but it may become longer depending)_

_Also if you're interested I created a Polyvore account where I'm going to be uploading outfits from all my stories because I'm just that sad. You can find this chapter's __here (__ natasha_romanoff_lost_found_ch2/set?id=150269820)__, which is what I pictured Natasha wearing on her plane trip xx_

X X X

Natasha had been on her fair share of plane trips in her lifetime, and the trip from Manhattan to Berlin was no different, aside from the fact that, despite her cool exterior, her heart was hammering dangerously fast against her ribcage. Her interview with the council appeared to be on every TV screen, and the general buzz of the airport seemed to have a different air to it. She ran a hand through her now dark brown hair – after deciding that her red locks would be rather conspicuous, that morning she'd hurried out to the nearest supermarket to buy a cheap wash out dye, which would at least get her through the plane trip.

Finally, after 40 minutes of waiting, her flight was called and she could make her way onto the plane. She was seated next to a rather dorky looking young man, and a quick assessment of his body language and physic told her that he was relatively safe, and if need be she could have him on the floor in an instant. He also didn't seem inclined to make small talk, for which she was grateful, and so she set about the 11 hour trip in peace.

X X X

Berlin, Natasha decided, was too _fucking _cold for its own good. Almost as soon as she stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac she was greeted with an icy blast of wind that sent a chill down her spine, and she thanked a god she didn't believe in for having the sense to put on two extra jumpers that morning. After rushing through security, she organised for a car hire in flawless German, paid with an untraceable credit card and began her trip to the safe house. Now that she was so close every fibre of her being seemed to be aching to get to Clint, to see him, hear him, touch him, and nothing was going to get in her way.

She had a vague idea about how to go about it, but the disadvantage of not knowing what she would find at the safe house was putting a serious hindrance on forming a plan. The safe house seemed relatively generic, based on the information in Fury's file. A retina scan, passcode and voice identification was required before entrance, but that wasn't what worried her. By stepping into the house she'd be entering unknown territory where anything could be waiting for her. She'd be on the back foot, and she hated that.

The house was on a 14 acre property, and Natasha at first mistook it for a forest. Thick clusters of trees isolated the house from view, and also provided her with adequate coverage from any cars that might drive past. Heaving her duffel bag from the car she began her trek through the property, careful to remain hidden amongst the trees. After reaching a suitable clearing she dumped the bag and began to strip off her many layers until she was standing in her SHIELD uniform.

An odd sense of longing swept over her as she looked down at it. When she first joined SHIELD it had been like starting a new life, and now that had been taken away from her. Granted, it had taken her a while to be sure that it was the life she wanted, but it had, and she'd become attached to it.

_Don't get attached._

That had been rule one at the KGB. _Attachment is weak, attachment will kill you_. It had been grained into her since she was a child, she _knew_ that attachment meant complications, and yet all it had taken was one archer and she'd become attached to SHIELD, to the avengers, to _him_. He was always there, he always had her back.

Her jaw hardened in determination, anyone who even thought about laying a hand on him would instantly regret it. She pulled a glock from the bag and slid it into her thigh holster, another one held steadily in her hand as she crept through the thick trees to the house. Stealthily and silently, she made a quick perimeter check before sidling up onto the porch to the front door. She was about to enter in the code when she paused, frowning, and took a closer look at the door. It was open by a fraction of a centimetre, as though it had been pulled to but refused to lock. She stiffened and instinctively glanced behind her, but there was nothing there. Raising the glock she pushed the door open with her foot, poised to attack anyone who might come at her without a moment's hesitation. No one did, however, and Natasha waited ten seconds before venturing a foot inside.

Something was definitely wrong.

All of the blinds were shut and there was a certain tang to the stale air that Natasha instantly identified as blood. Swallowing, her bright green eyes darted around the room, trying to identify any objects she could in the darkened shadows. Remaining on the offensive, she crossed deftly to the nearest window and tugged open the blinds, flooding the room with light. The coffee table had been flipped over, and papers were strewn all over the floor. Other than that, though, the room seemed relatively normal. Then she got a look behind the couch.

Lying face down on the floor was what Natasha assumed to be a dead body. Keeping both her eyes and glock trained on the man, she knelt down beside him and felt for a pulse. None. Definitely dead, then, she thought, standing. Even more cautious now than before, she made her way into the hallway, keeping her back to the wall and her gun ready. She made a quick sweep of the rest of the house (which consisted of two bedrooms, a bathroom and the conjoined kitchen/living area she'd entered first) during which she uncovered 11 more bodies, and a particularly nasty blood stain in the first bedroom that she hoped to god wasn't Clint's. Satisfied that there was no one left in the house to ambush her, she began her assessment of the bodies. To her relief, Clint wasn't among them, but less pleasing was the unmistakable label that accompanied each body.

SHIELD agents.

Her blood ran cold when she found the first familiar face. Agent Ross, a likeable man of about 35, who she'd been partnered with twice before, had been shot straight through the heart and left to die in the bathroom. Her heart hammered in her chest as she realised the two possibilities that lay before her; either Clint had killed a respectable SHIELD agent or the man she had once called a friend had been working for HYDRA. She didn't really want to think about either possibility, truth be told.

She sat back on the couch in the entrance room and tried to piece together the scenario that would have happened to result in this. _Why_ would SHIELD (or HYDRA) order an attack on Clint? The only logical conclusion Natasha could come to for SHIELD was that they had discovered Clint was HYDRA. She hated to think that though. Every time that thought had come up so far she had pushed it back down again, because it made her want to throw up. Clint just couldn't, he _couldn't_ be HYDRA. It was impossible, she would have noticed, she would have known. She rubbed her hand over her face, all of a sudden feeling very tired. She felt lost, she didn't know what to do or where to go, and she was sitting in a house filled with dead bodies. Her life had never seemed more out of control.

Composing herself, she began to rifle through the papers on the floor for any clues. When she found none, she moved onto the bedroom. She went about it in silence, logically and thoroughly, leaving no stone unturned. It wasn't until the kitchen however that she found something of any significance. To anyone else, it wouldn't have been worth noting, and if Natasha hadn't been who she was and known Clint as well as she did then she wouldn't have thought anything of it either. But it caught her eye almost at once. Clint wasn't the type who needed to write things down to remember them, so why would he have a stack of sticky notes? She highly doubted it had been there already, as the rest of her search had told he that the house only contained the essentials.

Lifting it from the drawer, she examined it carefully. On the first sticky note there was a hastily scribbled note: _must buy milk_. She frowned in confusion and peeled it off to be greeted with what appeared to be an absent minded doodle. It was a picture of a hawk in its nest, with a spider crawling in. Underneath it the phrase "_the spider is in the hawks nest_", was neatly printed in Clint's hand writing. Natasha felt her breath still as she pieced it together; the meaning couldn't have been plainer to her, and she felt a twisting in her stomach as she realised exactly what it was telling her, and where she had to go.

Budapest.


	3. Budapest

This chapter took me so long, it's ridiculous. On the plus side though, it's massively long and gives some background to the Budapest thing, although not quite everything. Next chapter should be up on Saturday, and as usual reviews/favourites/follows are always lovely x

X X X

_Budapest, 9 years ago_

_The rain splashed heavy on the road around him, as Clint whipped his head around, trying to get a decent look at their attackers. He could hear Natasha shouting something to his left, but he couldn't make it out over the gunfire. He positioned another arrow in his bow and shot it in the direction of the bullets, not seeing the arrow hit its target, but trusting it had. He was beginning to panic now, the safe house had to be at least a mile away, and the fight didn't seem like it was going to let up. He was beginning to give up hope._

_And then Natasha threw the grenade._

_The first thing that he became aware of was the heat. He had just enough time to twist his body round, shielding his face and chest from the blast, before he was launched into the air, slamming down on the ground ungracefully. He groaned, pain shooting through each bone in his body. His wrist in particular was throbbing, and he idly suspected it was fractured, if not a complete break. He rolled onto his back, the rain hitting his face. The road was silent. There was no more onslaught of bullets, so he took that to mean that Natasha's grenade had done its job._

_Natasha. Shit._

_Forcing himself to sit up (he winced as pain shot through his side – broken ribs, probably) he blinked a few times to clear his vision. _

_"Tash?" He called, just loud enough for anyone nearby to hear._

_"Over here!" He heard her yell from a short distance away. The relief coursed through his body, giving him enough force to stand and search for her. She was lying in a ditch a few metres away, her hair plastered to her face, blood dripping from a hole in her shoulder and her ankle in an odd position, but otherwise unscathed. He grabbed her good arm, tugging her to feet. She leaned against him, tucking her head into his shoulder as he wrapped an arm around her. _

_"You good?"_

_"I will be."_

_Silently, steadily, they began the trek to the safe house, leaning on each other as they always had, hands resting on guns in case of any other attackers. The walk was without incident, though, and when they finally reached the safe house they did so in the knowledge that they were indeed safe. It was slightly more spacious than a standard issue house, with two bedrooms and a second bathroom, and was neat and unlived in. The bed sheets, although not of the finest quality, were clean and the showers had hot water, so it was one of the better safe houses Clint had occupied._

_They stood side by side in the hallway, bruised and battered, with all the energy drained from them. Clint's wrist throbbed painfully at his side, and Natasha was having to stand in such a way as to relieve as much pressure as possible from her ankle, and the mud had caked onto their clothes and underneath their fingernails. Clint wondered if he'd ever be truly clean again. There was silence for a moment before he finally voiced the question that was hanging in the air._

_"Which bedroom do you want?"_

_He watched as Natasha pursed her lips and shifted uncomfortably. Her hands shook the slightest bit, and she was determinedly not looking at him. He could almost see the walls she had built around herself._

_"Would you… would you mind terribly if we shared?"_

_Her voice cracked ever so slightly on the last words, and the walls came tumbling down. Clint reached out and took her hand, silently letting her know the answer without making her say anymore. He felt rather than saw the relief rush through her, as her body relaxed and her fingers curled around his. Together, they entered the master bedroom and rummaged around in the closets for suitable spare clothes and a first aid kit. _

_Natasha took first shower and remerged in a tank top and cotton pyjama shorts, looking tired but decidedly better off. The gunshot wound in her shoulder still trickled blood, causing Clint to hesitate on his way to the bathroom. Catching his uncertainty, Natasha shook her head at him._

_"Shower," she said, softly but still maintaining a firm tone, "It can wait."_

_He nodded and continued. The hot water from the shower was a blessing. It seared his skin as he scrubbed furiously at it, removing every last trace of mud or dried blood. He had a nasty gash on the side of his leg, but it was relatively shallow and appeared uninfected, so he supposed he should be thankful for that._

_Stepping out from the shower he pulled on a t-shirt and boxers, waiting until he could dress the cut on his leg to pull on the sweatpants he'd bought into the bathroom with him. Exiting the bathroom he found Natasha perched on the bed, sorting through the first aid kit. She looked up when he came in, eyes darting almost immediately to his leg. _

_"Do you need me to patch that up?"_

_He shook his head, "I can manage. How's your shoulder?"_

_"I can't quite reach it properly to bandage," she said, flicking her hair to the side so he had a clear view of it. His brow furrowed in confusion, it was bleeding decidedly more than it had been when he'd last seen it. His gaze flickered to the bedside table and the bloody pair of tweezers and gauze._

_"Nat?" he asked hesitantly, not wanting to overstep any boundaries, "Did you dig the bullet out yourself?"_

_She nodded and he sighed, rubbing his temples with his uninjured hand. "You don't – you don't have to do that by yourself anymore, I can – nobody should have to stitch themselves up alone, Nat."_

_There was something in the tone of his voice that made her meet his eye, "I know."_

_He sighed again and sat down next to her, the bed sagging underneath their combined weight. He curled his fingers around hers for a moment, relishing in the warmth that spread through him. Too soon, though, he dropped it and picked up a gauze pad and some medical tape, carefully applying it to her shoulder and then bandaging it. When it was all done she slipped on an oversized t-shirt that had been crumpled up next to her, albeit with some difficulty, and set to work on his wrist. She bandaged it and wrapped it in a sling, before moving onto her ankle. They worked in silence, patching up the others wounds when they couldn't do it themselves. _

_When they had finally finished the sky outside had turned to dusk and a chilly air had entered the room._

_"Question is; did Coulson bother to put some extra blankets in here somewhere?" said Clint to himself as he searched one handed through the wardrobe. "Aha!"_

_Dumping the newly found blankets onto the bed he wandered out into the kitchen to join Natasha, who was microwaving some packet soup and leaning against the counter. She pushed a mug of warm tea towards him when he entered, and he took it gratefully. Clint stood quietly, not sure of what to say. It seemed to him that most of their interactions were silent, which wasn't necessarily a bad thing, but sometimes he felt as though there was a bridge between them that had to be crossed, and he was just waiting for her to take the first step._

_"I'm sorry." _

_Her voice broke through the thick air in the kitchen like a knife and he looked up, confused._

_"What you said… before… about not having to patch yourself up alone," she let out a sigh and ran a hand through her hair, "I get it, I do, I'm just not… used to it."_

_"Tash…" he interrupted, stepping forwards so he could see her face more clearly, but she held up a hand to stop him._

_"Please, Clint, let me finish. I'm not used to it because before I met you I was taught that everything was a liability. Attachment, sentimentality… love. I was taught that all those things would only end in pain, that they were a weakness, a vulnerability. So I taught myself how to close off. I built walls around myself and never let anyone get past them. And then you turned up…" she laughed, but it didn't sound at all how it normally did. It was hollow and disbelieving, and it made Clint's heart break. "You knocked those walls down and I don't even think you realised you were doing it. Every bit of trust you showed me caused another brick to break, and I keep worrying…" she paused, and forced her eyes to meet his. She looked fearful, and Clint wondered if it was because of what she was admitting to him or what she was admitting to herself. _

_"I keep worrying that it's just a game. I keep fearing that you're just going to up and leave, and that terrifies me to the bone because I don't think I could pick myself up if it did happen". _

_She let out a shaky breath as she finished her speech, pulling her arms tight around her and avoiding his gaze. His breath felt tight in his chest and he resisted the urge to laugh. He moved closer to her and gently placed his hand on her forearm._

_"Nat. Look at me. Natasha." _

_The sound of her full name got her attention and her eyes snapped up to fix on his face, sharp and analysing, trying to figure out his next move._

_"I'm not going to leave you," he said, gently whilst still being firm. He noted the hair width raise of her eyebrows and felt a block of ice slide into his stomach as he realised why. She'd given him an out, and she'd expected him to take it. He resisted the urge to shout and continued on._

_"I'm never going to leave you," he repeated, "Jesus, Nat, I don't think I could even if I wanted to. I'm not gonna spin you some bullshit about how you're not actually fucked up, because the red room made sure of that, but sometimes the best thing for a fucked up person is another one. And that's how I feel when I'm with you. We're both pretty fucked up, that's no secret, but when I'm with you I feel like less of a fuck up. When I'm with you I feel whole, Nat, and I'm not gonna leave you by yourself because for some reason you think you don't deserve to be happy." _

_He breathed in deep and looked her dead in the eyes, trying to discern what was going on in her head. At some point while he'd been talking she'd stepped closer, and now they were less than a foot apart. He felt exposed, and suddenly he was afraid that instead of reassuring her he'd just scared her away. He went to step back but suddenly her hand was on his face and she was rubbing his cheekbone gently with her thumb._

_"So it's two fucked up people against the world then?" she breathed, letting the smallest of smiles onto her face._

_"Pretty much," agreed Clint. She smiled again, and pulled him down towards her. The kiss was surprisingly slow; it was gentle and unsure, so very un-Natasha but still so very, very her. He wrapped his free arm around her, pulling her closer, and she responded by moving her hand from his cheek to his hair. Her body was warm against his and he found himself never wanting to let her go, to stay like this forever. He pulled back and pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, his arm still around her waist. The following hour was filled with little moments that helped to demolish the gap between them; chaste kisses in-between mouthfuls of soup, comforting touches that hadn't been missing before, per sue, but merely less open. When they finally settled into bed and Natasha curled up close to him, Clint felt as though everything had come full circle. They had been dancing around each other for so long, never really sure as to where they stood with the other or what they wanted, but finally they knew. And it felt… it felt natural. It didn't feel forced, the way Natasha's hip slotted in next to his, or the way their fingers interlocked perfectly, like two gears of the same machine. It just felt right. _

_"G'Night, Tasha," he whispered as he switched off the light and removed his hearing aids._

_He didn't hear her speak, but he felt the vibrations of her voice against his chest;_

_"Goodnight, Clint."_


	4. Found

_I'm a few days late, I know, but I wanted to make sure I was happy with this chapter before I posted it, as it's kind of pivotal to the story. It's nearing it's end, I fear, I think there'll probably another chapter and then maybe an epilogue. Thank you so much for all the lovely comments this story has received, it makes me so happy to see them in my inbox :) xx_

X X X

The next morning when Natasha awoke, safe and clean in warm bed, she was blessed with a few precious moments of blissful ignorance. After hightailing it out of the safe house the previous night, she'd found herself a rather pleasant hotel and settled down for the night. It was large and spacious, with large glass windows that allowed the sunlight to dance across the room, and it had a nice little bathroom that Natasha had spent a long time in the night before, scrubbing any traces of blood off her skin. It was nice enough to wake up in, but not nice enough to keep memories at bay for very long.

Sighing, she sank deeper down into the duvet, the soft bedspread wrapping her up in a cocoon of warmth. She half hoped that it would swallow her up so she could escape and ignore the guilty sensation that was gnawing at her chest. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine that she was at home, and that Clint was in the kitchen, no doubt singing along to some god awful pop song he'd found on the radio. She felt a quick surge of warmth and happiness rush through her, before it was inevitably replaced by the aching feeling that had accompanied her for the last 2 days.

She hates herself for not trusting Clint. She's tried to convince herself that it's all Fury's fault, that if he hadn't given her that damn cryptic warning she wouldn't be here right now, but deep down she knows that's not true. Deep down she knows that if she really trusted Clint she wouldn't be in the awful mind set of self-preservation that she is.

Because that's what it is, isn't it? What it all boils down to – she's trying to save herself. Or perhaps, more accurately, the _Black Widow_ is trying to save herself. The _Black Widow_ is running from country to country, putting together the pieces and trying to determine whether it's safe. The _Black Widow_ is doing that, because Natasha Romanoff can't. Natasha Romanoff has been compromised; when she looks in the mirror all she sees is a stranger, someone dripping with blood and regret, blindly allowing herself to be controlled by the wrong people, not Natasha Romanoff, not anymore.

Natasha Romanoff likes books, and the rain, and she smiles and greets Clint with a kiss on the cheek and a hug. She likes to light candles and drink wine, and she likes to spend Sunday mornings in bed with music playing. Natasha Romanoff burnt the roast dinner one Christmas because she was too busy dancing to cheesy songs on the radio, and she didn't even care.

Natasha Romanoff is a liability, because she _cares_, and so she's been shoved down under layers and layers in an attempt to protect herself. The emotions that she's been pushing down since the beginning of this shit show are bubbling dangerously close to the surface. She ached for Clint, she wanted to hold him, kiss him, be told that everything was going to be okay. Even his shirt, which she'd snagged from her washing basket and still retained the smell of that stupid pine tree soap he used, couldn't soothe her. She kept thinking about Budapest, and how it had been the first time her and Clint had truly opened up to each other. Nine years into their relationship and it still scared her; how much she'd bared herself to him that day. It terrified her that he had the power to break her so completely, so _intimately_, and it terrified her even more to know that now he just might.

The words from the KGB came drifting back to her; _Attachment gets you killed_. For all she knew Clint was dead and HYDRA was leading her on a wild goose chase. _Nobody will ever be attached to you, Natalia, so why should you attach yourself to them? _She curled up into a foetal position as she began to shake, picturing Clint lying dead on the floor, picturing him with a knife to her throat, ready to make the killing blow. The sobs wracked through her body before she even knew they were there, her nails digging into her palms as she cursed herself over and over. She let every emotion she had tried to hide spill out of her; she cried for herself, for Steve and the friend he had lost, she cried for the organisation she thought she had found a home in. But most of all, she cried for the archer she had called home.

X X X

Her dark brown hair did at least keep her relatively under the radar, thought Natasha as she strode through the lobby of the hotel. In dark jeans, knee high boots and a tan coat, she simply looked like any other woman hailing a taxi through the crowded streets of Berlin. She heaved her duffle bag into the cab, barely speaking to the driver, anxiously twiddling her fingers round a stray thread that was dangling from her coat. Her mobile phone burned in her pocket, she had tried phoning Clint again that morning, but just like the few dozen times before she had been met with no answer.

She tried not to cry again.

The last minute ticket purchase was paid for via yet another of SHIELD's credit cards, and she willed herself not to outright run from the overcrowded airport when she heard two English-speakers shout about the Black Widow and the travesty she had caused America. She politely declined the first class flight attendant's offer of wine and shut down her flirting attempts as kindly as she could, and then allowed herself to escape by chatting animatedly to the woman next to her, crafting a new identity as she went.

Finally, the plane landed and Natasha could step out into the brisk air of Budapest. Her senses were on high alert, green eyes taking in as much information as they could. She didn't bother hiring a car this time around, instead she hotwired a nearby motorbike and drove off as fast as she could. Her memory was impeccable, and so Natasha doubted that even if she'd wanted to she'd never have been able to forget the exact spot Strike Team: DELTA were ambushed on their last visit. She'd purposely chosen clothes that morning that would allow her enough flexibility to fight in, so she simply tightened her scarf and equipped herself with a glock, in addition to the knife stashed in her boot and the smaller hand gun that was hidden in her coat.

She left the motorbike about a hundred meters from where she remembered the safe house to be. From the outside, it simply looked like a derelict dump, with a few tiles missing from the roof and a boarded up front window. Her heart was pounding in her chest, the anxiety rising in her out of fear for what awaited her. A storm was brewing overhead, the dark clouds rolling in, and a bolt of thunder had Natasha looking up in disbelief. Nothing else happened, though, and the hope (for what? A friend? Ally?) that had briefly spread through Natasha quelled. This was something she had to do alone.

Getting her grit together, she walked steadily to front door, not bothering to hide. If it was Clint who awaited her, hiding was pointless and if not, well, may as well give them a show. The security check in was still functioning on this one, so she performed a retina and fingerprint scan before the door slid back to allow her entrance. To her surprise, the lights were on, and the smell of curry filled the air. She kept her gun trained in front of her, just in case, before he stood up from the couch a few metres away.

A nasty bruise that had just begun to turn yellow covered the left side of his shoulder and neck, and his forearms were sloppily bandaged, but he was _here_ and he was _alive_. She had nearly dropped the gun in surprise, her body overflowing with relief, but she kept it up in defence.

"I hear you sassed some pretty important councillors."

That was all it took, one stupid sentence and she believed everything her heart was telling her. It didn't matter that every bone in her body, every instinct or rational thought was telling her _no_, her heart was racing and she knew, _she knew_ that she had been a fool to ever doubt him. Because he was Clint, and he was her rock, and if all it had taken was a snappy comment and his goddamn smile to make her sure of it, well, that probably said more about her than it did about him. She dropped the gun to her side, letting it clatter on the ground, and allowed her first true smile in days to spread across her face.

"God, I've missed you."

And then she was running, leaping into his arms and kissing him like there was no tomorrow, as he spun her round, laughing. Her smile spread into a full blown grin that she couldn't contain, happiness bursting out of her as she laughed and laughed, allowing all the tension that had been building up to fall free of her. His own grin was just as wide, and for a while they just stared at each other, beaming like a pair of idiots, until a cold blast of wind travelled through the still open door and they broke apart.

Natasha had forgotten how easily they fell into a routine. She ran to retrieve her duffel bag, and when she returned Clint had both a pot of coffee and the kettle going. He'd laid out some blankets and was chopping up vegetables, humming along to the song on the radio. When he looked at her his eyes were soft, and his smile was equally as soft when he spotted the pendant on her neck. She slipped into the bedroom and pulled on his shirt, a pair of sweatpants and a light grey hoodie. She returned to the kitchen/living area, wrapping her arms around him and savouring the feeling of being safe in his arms. She knew the time would come when she would have to explain about HYDRA, and what she'd done in retaliation. She also knew that she would have to tell him about her worry of him being HYDRA, she couldn't keep that from him, but for now she was content to leave that all for another day.

The song on the radio changed and Clint surprised her by pulling back and twisting her round so her back was resting against his chest. Ever so slightly, he began to sway in time to the music, and Natasha found herself joining in, resting her head back on his shoulder.

_Something happens and I'm head over heels,  
I never find out what until I'm head over heels,_

She laughed as Clint pulled back from her, still holding her hand, and began to dance. The pasta simmered away forgotten on the stove as Clint lifted her up and spun her round, also laughing. Yes, they would have to talk about the things that were to come, but that could come later; for now they would just enjoy each other's company, free from their past and the bloody trail that followed them.

X X X

_In case anyone's interested, the song Clint and Nat are dancing to is "Head over Heels" by Tears for Fears. It's a really lovely song, and I just really liked the idea of the two of them dancing around the kitchen to it :)_


End file.
